


Bane of The Wolf-Blood

by GlassNectar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya Stark-centric, Arya is mentally unstable, Brandon Stark Lives, Brandon is an abuser, Brandon is the father of ALL the Stark children, Edric Dayne is a sweetheart, F/M, Grooming, House Dayne, House Stark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parent-Child Relationship, Parent/Child Incest, Stark POV, Starkcest | Stark Family Incest (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 10:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30138180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassNectar/pseuds/GlassNectar
Summary: Aerys II Targaryen passed away the week before Brandon Stark arrived at King's Landing, enraged at Rhaegar Targaryen's kidnapping of his sister, Lyanna Stark. Brandon called out for the new king to return his sister or to refuse and prepare for war. King Rhaegar Targaryen, in order to preserve the peace between Houses Stark and Targaryen, sent for Lyanna Stark to return home from Dorne as he wished for no "unnecessary bloodshed."In Winterfell, Brandon and Catelyn Tully's new marriage was made erratic by Lyanna's returned presence in the North. The nature of Lyanna and Brandon's relationship was outlandish at best. Soon after, it became clear that the she-wolf of Winterfell was with child. And following Lyanna's death in child-birth, Brandon declared her child his own bastard son.Twenty years later, the perturbation of these events still linger, haunting Winterfell, and the remaining Starks in the North. Brandon's turbulent wolf-blood grows, as does his passion for his daughter, Arya Stark, who so explicitly mirrors the sister he lost. Arya faces inner-conflict when her relationship with her father turns forbidden and passionate. Soon enough, the idea of marriage, and leaving Winterfell, begins to entice her.
Relationships: (past), Arya Stark/Brandon Stark, Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Brandon Stark/Lyanna Stark, Edric "Ned" Dayne/Arya Stark
Kudos: 6





	Bane of The Wolf-Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed ALL the tags. This story contains taboo subject matter and is not for everyone. If the mentioned subject matter could deeply trigger or disturb you, please click away.

Arya

Arya never thought the day would come, she was so sure she’d _fight_ harder, that she’d _scream_ , _kick_ , _run away_ , and _refuse_ viciously. But once the day arrived she found that she had little fight left inside of her. She had been five-and-ten now, _no longer a child_. Her stubbornness and her cries of defiance burned out eventually. And when her father, _Brandon Stark_ , dismally offered her choices, _two choices,_ she even found herself carefully considering them _. Marry Edric Dayne and travel to Dorne, or marry Elmar Frey and travel to The Riverlands._

No matter how hard she would try to separate the two young lords, and the two vastly different destinations, they had played out the same in her head. _Absolutely the same_. She figured she would be a _lady_ anyway, a lady in an indifferent union, married to a lord who cared little for her. A man who she would have to be someone else in order to satisfy, a man who she was almost positive would grow to hate her _eventually_. 

There would be days when Arya’s will to fight would awaken like a deep fire within her core. But to her dismay, it would always die down. All she had to do was remember how much of a burden she was, to Winterfell, to her brothers, and especially to her mother. It only took one cold look into her mother's blue eyes for her inner rebelliousness to cease from ripping through. One look at her father’s dark _longing_ eyes … one look at Nymeria’s golden eyes, to understand where she ought to go. _Nymeria_ , she had thought to herself quickly. _Nymeria of Ny Sar._ Perhaps that’s where the Old Gods wanted her to go from the very beginning, from the moment the forest birthed six direwolf pups. 

…

It was a cold night that night. The wind whistled from behind the castle walls, and everything had been unusually quiet. Arya sat at the table in Winterfell’s Great Hall with her mother, father, and brothers. The hall had been empty of soldiers, Winter town people, and even Vayon Poole and Jeyne Poole, who had often accompanied them for supper. Everyone had been preparing for the upcoming storm. Brandon had assured his family that it was nothing to worry about, for Spring was only around the corner. 

“The warmer air and the colder air are fighting!” Rickon had called out after him. “But the warmer air will eventually win. At least … warm for Winterfell … But first a storm … and later, Spring!” 

“Very well put.” Brandon had said, with a little smile on his face. Arya watched as Brandon reached for Rickon’s head. Rickon’s attempt to stop his father’s hand from reaching his scalp, but completely failed. Rickon yielded to his father’s jokingly, and equally aggressive, gesture. Brandon mussed his auburn hair around, quite harshly, and chuckled. Rickon’s cry of protest made everyone around the table giggle too, even the handmaidens, who happily brought more wine to the table, and more fresh bread for Brandon and Rickon had been stuffing them down with fervor. Everyone had been in good spirits, all except for Arya. She sat quietly and hoped her family would not take notice, but she found it hard to hide her true emotions. 

The supper was black sausage, barley bread, and cabbage cooked in butter. The smell was good, Arya thought, and even though her stomach was empty, and growling, she felt as if it were in knots. She moved her soggy cabbage, this way and that way on her plate. Her right elbow was on the table, she noticed, and she was slouching. Arya was suddenly so relieved that Septa Mordane hadn’t been accompanying them this evening either. 

Arya watched as Bran ate silently next to her, not speaking much at all. Rickon, on Bran’s left, yapped on about all the tricks he had taught Shaggy Dog. No one had been really listening to him, Arya noticed. Catelyn pushed Bran to eat more, and once in a while, Arya would notice her mother’s cold glare. Arya wondered if she had imagined it somehow. _Mother doesn’t hate me_ , she thought. _She doesn’t know enough to hate me. Mother doesn’t hate me._ Arya repeated that particular phrase to herself as if it were some mantra of sorts. 

Brandon ate silently from the center end of the table. He pretended to listen to Rickon, who sat to his right and held Catelyn’s hand, who sat to his left. They interlocked their fingers and Arya watched as her father’s thumb grazed the back of her mother’s hand. Arya twisted her mouth bitterly. Her mother had finished half of her supper and had been mostly drinking wine. _A Dornish Red_ , Arya recalled as she swallowed back from her own cup, and emptied out her goblet all at once. No one had noticed her doing so, except for Robb, who sat right in front of her. 

“You’re not eating.” He said quietly, chewing slowly. His face looked tired, and his expression had looked concerning. His look of concern had almost irritated Arya in a way. 

“I am too!” She said much too loud, the wine quickly taking effect. Her family turned to her in surprise and she looked away, almost ashamed. “Donella,” Arya called out to the handmaiden politely by her name and gestured to the wine in her hand. “A bit more, please-” 

“Arya.” Catelyn had called out sternly. Donella stopped behind Arya, as she lifted the wine decanter with hesitation. “You’ve already had two-” 

“-That’s alright, Cat,” Brandon interjected with a mouth full of food. “She’s nearly a woman grown, let her enjoy her wine, as you are.” Her father gestured at Donella as if granting the woman permission. 

“Very well,” Catelyn said, almost bitterly, as she quietly averted her attention to her own chalice. Arya held up her cup to the busty handmaiden and tried to smile, but her smile faltered. Arya’s fingers had also been shaking, and Donella had to take her goblet and set it down on the table before pouring the deep-red liquid inside. Arya thanked the woman, and when she looked up, noticed Robb was frowning at her, and her mother and father were no longer holding hands.

_Terrible daughter. What a horrible terrible daughter I am,_ Arya thought as she sipped the sour wine. _I have to go. I have to leave Winterfell. All I do is cause trouble. I’m horrible. Horrible._ Arya took another big gulp.

“Slow down, sweetling.” Brandon had said from his place at the end of the table. “Savor it.” 

Arya put her goblet down and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. Her mother huffed at her daughter’s lack of manners, but Arya had been too into her thoughts to care about something as trivial as manners. For a while, Arya noticed no one spoke a word. They only ate quietly, as the winds blew with an ominous howl. Arya bit into a bit of bread and sausage before sipping on a bit more wine. She had started to truly feel it now. The room spun just a bit, and she noticed a sort of bravery beginning to grow from within her. 

Bran looked over at Arya, shyly, his auburn fringe over his face. He had already grown much taller than her, and much more mature, Arya had once thought bitterly. “Are you alright?” He asked as he studied his older sister’s face. Bran’s eyes went wide. “Are you drunk?” He asked, beaming. 

“Shut up!” Arya spat rudely, pinching her younger brother’s arm hard. 

“ _Ouch!_ ” Bran cried out, half-laughing already. 

“Arya!” Catelyn called out, fiercely. “Enough!”

Arya stood up all of a sudden. She stood with her fists tightly by her sides, hearing as Bran chuckled, and stroked at his arm to soothe where she pinched him. “I’ve got something I need to say!” She bellowed, and Catelyn looked at her daughter with an outraged expression. Arya’s eyes landed on her father, who watched her closely, without uttering one word to her, or anyone. He chewed slowly now and placed his bread down. Catelyn bitterly crossed her hands over her chest, the expression on her pretty pale face was hard, though the woman looked just as elegant and beautiful as she did bothered. 

Arya looked at all of her siblings, and her mother and father straight in the eyes. “I’ve chosen Edric Dayne. _Dorne_ .” She felt dizzy all of a sudden, but the bravery the wine lent her was still alive within her. “And I’d like to thank you, _father_ , _mother_ , for offering me a choice at all. And I choose Edric Dayne. I’ll wed him when Spring is upon us, if not sooner, and I will no longer fight like some spoiled child. I won’t run away. Or shout. I’ll-” Arya plopped down on her chair as the room began to spin faster. She held onto her head. Her heart was racing so fast, she thought it would burst through her dress and cloak. 

“I never thought I would live to see the day,” Robb said with a gentle smile. 

Bran looked over at Arya, still rubbing his arm, his eyes wide. He was no longer smiling. 

“That’s-” Her mother started with a wide smile but stopped at once. Stopped when Brandon slammed his goblet down on the table. He hadn’t looked at anyone since Arya first spoke, and his growing rage could be felt like a hot fire that radiated off his body. 

Arya heard as his chair scraped against the floor. Brandon stood at once, shoving his seat into the table. And without so much as a word, or look at anyone, he began to stomp out of the Great Hall at a fast and powerful pace. No one dared to utter a word at him, or to him. Or at one another. At least not until the Great Hall doors closed behind Brandom with a slam. Bran and Arya jumped at the slam in unison. Robb and Catelyn sat still, looking at one another dismally. 

“Arya’s leaving?!” Rickon called out, seemingly unfazed by his father’s rage. It had been only now that Arya’s words had reached him. He turned to Bran and tapped his older brother for confirmation, but Bran did not respond, still seemingly startled himself. Rickon stood from the table and looked over to Arya. Their eyes met. “Forever?!” Rickon asked and Arya had to look away, as she felt she might begin to cry.

“Rickon-” Catelyn started.

“First Jon, then Sansa, and now you too?! It’s so soon! And you said you’d _never_ leave Winterfell!” Arya turned away from her little brother who was approaching her slowly. “Why has that changed now?!” 

“Rickon, stop it!” Catelyn said rigidly, her palms slammed on the table and she had been half-standing and half-sitting.

“ _Good_! Just go! Everyone just leave already!” Rickon shouted at no one in particular. “I don’t care!” Rickon stood up at once, with just as much fire as his father, and pushed his chair away as he stormed off after Brandon. He ignored his mother and Robb who had been calling out to him, to calm him, to try to explain the situation to him a bit better. But it was no use. He had not yet turned nine and was much too wild and irrational. His fury came and went, but had been nearly impossible to tame and temper. Just like his father’s. Just like Arya’s _sometimes_. 

Rickon opened the large door before sticking out his tongue at his older sister from the distance, and slammed the door closed, almost as hard as Brandon had. Arya turned from her chair and froze. A silence fell between the four that remained at the table. Arya felt so many things at once. She wanted to hold and comfort Rickon just as much as she wanted to thump him in the ear. She wanted to yell at her mother but also craved her comforting warm arms. She wanted to cry, but she also wanted to break something. Instead, she just sat and drank, incapable of looking at Robb, or her mother, or Bran. 

“Arya, enough wine,” Robb said, taking the goblet away. Arya quickly went to grab her cup from his hand stubbornly, but he grabbed her left-wrist with his free hand before she could. Arya watched as her older brother put her goblet down beside him before releasing her fighting hand. She pulled away from Robb’s grasp at once, suddenly embarrassed. When she sat back, she felt the tears hot in her eyes, one even leaked out. She wiped it away before it fell down her cheek, and anyone had noticed. No one had noticed her tears, but surely they had noticed her uncontrollable sniffling. 

“I think it’s time for bed,” Robb said softly, after another silence, full of tension, fell between them. He stood up at once, with great poise. Catelyn nodded, and stood, placing her chalice down softly. She walked over to Robb first and squeezed his arm. Arya watched her mother move from her peripheral, Arya not moving from her own seat, as her brothers stood after her. 

Arya noticed her mother kiss Bran’s forehead before letting him go and making her way towards her. “I’ll go speak to Rickon …” Arya heard Bran say, before he quietly pushed his seat inside the table, and disappeared from her view. Arya sat stiffly as Robb stood by his chair, and watched her, surely with worry still present in his eyes. 

Arya was startled when she felt her mother’s lips tenderly fall on her own forehead, just as they had for Bran. She looked up at her mother. Catelyn smiled at her sadly, and caressed her face, bringing Arya’s loose strands of brown hair behind her ear. Her mother did not say a word to her all throughout. Only looked at Robb wistfully, and back to Arya, before she squeezed her daughter’s shoulder comfortingly. She gracefully left after Bran, leaving her there. Arya wanted more of her mother’s nurturing compassion but knew that _that_ was as much as she was going to get, and she would have to accept that, just as she had to accept a great many things she would have preferred not to. 

“You’ve made a good choice, Arya. The right choice. Do you hear me?” Robb had said once their mother was gone. “Edric is a decent young man. You’ll see. You’ll meet him soon. You’ll see for yourself.” Robb went over to his little sister and kissed the top of her head. “I know Jon would approve too.” 

_Jon_. She did not want to be reminded of Jon now. _Of how far Dorne was to The North._ She did not want to think of any of it for the more she thought, the worse she felt. 

“It will all be alright, Arya. It’ll be good for you ... to get out of here. To get away from-” he stopped mid-sentence and took a second to find the right words, “...To start anew. You’ll be with Nymeria … it’ll be good. You’ll see.” Robb turned away. “Lady Donella, please clear the table.” He said gesturing to Arya as if he was afraid she would down all the remaining wine left. With one last pitiful look towards her, Robb left her there too. 

Arya did not stand from the table. She sat alone in the Great Hall for a while, _thinking_. The wine made her feel lethargic all of a sudden. So she sat there, still, until the handmaidens completely cleared the table, and the sounds of the upcoming storm began to intensify. It wasn’t until Arya heard Nymeria whining from behind the Great Hall’s double doors that she decided she would go to bed.

…

Arya thought that sleep wouldn’t take her, not that night, at least, but it had, and rather quickly thanks to all that wine. Her dreams that night had been a bit peculiar. She dreamt about Edric Dayne, or rather a figment of Edric Dayne. She had never met the young man, Robb and Jon had, once, and her father, but not her. 

In Arya’s dreams, Edric was a light blonde, violet-eyed, pale, and lithe, standing taller than her brothers. He wore a lilac cloak and walked around with his head down as if he was self-conscious about something, or many things at once. In her dreams, his voice was soft, and every word he spoke sounded like a song. He was so unlike Brandon, almost the antithesis of her father, but for some reason, she found she was intrigued by the boy in her dreams, whoever he was. _Edric Dayne or just her imagination._

Arya awoke to the sound of violent winds rattling her window. The second she opened her eyes, she felt a random arousing sensation growing from the pit of her stomach. She clenched her thighs as a sound escaped from her lips. She turned over to her belly and she dug her face with her pillow to muffle out the sounds that had come out of her mouth.

Nymeria shifted in the bed, beside her, and plopped down with a sigh. Arya ignored the direwolf as the sensation grew, building up to her pelvis, before moving down, until her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Arya breathed in and out hurriedly into her pillow, a bit confused. It wasn’t until she recalled her dream that she understood what was happening. 

She dreamt of her soon-to-be-betrothed. In her dream, he was so sweet and gentle. They had been laying on her bed together. He hovered over her, his tousled blond hair over his face. His chest was bare, and freckled with red beauty marks. His face was melancholy as he looked into Arya’s. He stroked her cheek in that tender nurturing way she craved so deeply. He ran his fingertips over her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her lips. And that’s all … that’s all she remembered. And just that had been enough to reach her to her climax upon waking up. 

Arya huffed, as she flipped over on her back. Her room had felt especially cold above her furs. Though it was dark, she noticed that the dim dawn-lighting peeked through her window. She thought she had slept much longer, but she had figured she was suddenly much too _bothered_ , and much too sober, to possibly get back to sleep. She stared at the dark canopy for a while, _thinking_ , wondering if dreams actually meant anything, or if she was just a stupid and foolish little girl. As stupid and foolish as her sister, Sansa, once was. _No, I’m nothing like Sansa._ She told herself. _I don’t want to marry Edric Dayne. Not truly. And imagining him to be anything but a snotty selfish lord is stupid of me. So stupid. No man would ever love me. Not like Jon did. Not like my father does_ …

And just as the thought of Brandon popped into Arya’s head, the door opened, and there he was, like some sort of freak coincidence. “ _Father?_ ” Arya and Nymeria sat up in unison. Arya watched as her father slipped inside the room, closing and barring the door behind him. Nymeria growled, ever so slightly as she watched him, but once Arya nudged her, she stopped altogether. 

Brandon looked disheveled. He wasn’t in his usual leather jerkin, cloak, or pelts. He wore his tunic under his trousers, and Arya noticed that his trousers had been half-undone. His dark shoulder-length hair looked almost shaggy, nothing like how it was usually styled, and his cheeks were red, red how they would get when Brandon drank a bit too much wine or ale. Arya watched as her father neared her, sluggishly but determined. _Willful_.

Arya stiffened as he made his way towards her. “You can’t be here now.” Arya heaved in a loud whisper. “It’s almost morning. You can’t-” Arya demanded bravely but her father only ignored her, frowning. He stood beside the bed, his hand caressing over his stomach as he studied his daughter closely. She looked up at him, her expression unyielding and serious, but not even close to being enough to get him to listen. “Go.” She protested. “ _Now_.” 

“I only presented those choices to you to shut your nagging pesky mother up. To get her off my arse.” He said, entirely ignoring her dignant requests. 

“Do not speak of her that way!” 

“How? In the same manner she speaks of you? Like you’re bothersome or less than Sansa and your brothers, like that?”

“You’re drunk.” 

“Drunk, yes. Dishonest? I’m afraid I do not know how to be dishonest. We’re very alike in that way. Are we not?” He thinks, and burps, and covers his face. “You loved me once. Much more than you loved your mother, even Jon. What happened?” Brandon sat down next to her, his eyes were full of tears. It had been as if a certain madness had possessed him. Arya had never seen her father like this. “Are you so eager to leave me? Presenting your decision so hastily? So out of nowhere? Have you grown to hate me? Is that it?” 

“No.” Arya shook her head, on the verge of tears herself. “I could never hate you.” 

He grabbed her arms with vigor. “Then why do you want to go?”

“I don’t know!” Arya shouted, much too loudly. She could feel the tears about to come down now, and she knew there was little she could do to hide them. “Let go of me!” She shouted again as she attempted to rip away from his hold. 

“Answer me!” He shook his daughter again. Nymeria began to growl once more but Brandon paid the direwolf no mind. “Answer me!” He shouted again as he pinned Arya down on the bed, his fists were tightly around her upper arms. “Arya …” She closed her eyes tightly and cried softly to herself, the sound of Nymeria’s low growling and whining playing in the same tune as her weeping. “Look at me,” Brandon commanded to no avail. She looked away from her father, sobbing. “Sweetling … look at me.” He said much softer that time.

And then bravely, she obeyed him. She looked him in the eyes, though her view had been fogged by her tears. She blinked hard to make sense of her father’s face above her, and that had made the tears run down faster. 

“I do not want you to marry that _pansy little_ bastard. You do not have to marry _him_ or _any_ of them-”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Arya interjected as she slapped her hand on her father’s mouth to stop him from muttering another word. Her wet, tear-stained face turned redder. Arya’s eyes landed on her father’s. He stared at her with great wild _ferocity_. With the same _longing,_ he had worn at supper. But behind all that, Arya saw his eyes were sad, _so sad_. She moved her hand to his cheek. She stroked his bearded face, moving from his cheek and down to his neck. She even reached for his loose hair and felt the softness between her fingers.

She noticed her breath was short suddenly, and her hand went from her father’s neck to his moving chest. Her father’s grip had made her upper-arm numb, but she found she liked that somehow. He hovered above her, staring at her in awe. 

Arya stared at her father’s face, and at once, she had become hyper-aware of her current state. Her tunic was riding up to her belly button, and her bare legs were entirely exposed. Nothing but a thin fabric covered her mound. She brought her knees up, and as soon as she did, she knew her father would notice the wetness that had begun to seep through her smallclothes. _The shame was quick to return._ She tilted her head and bit her lip as her father crouched lower hungrily. With his knees planted on the bed and his grasp on her arms, he crawled forward, moving his right knee in between Arya’s legs. He moved it up, _slowly_ , _dangerously slowly_. He brushed her smooth inner-thighs with his knee, watching as Arya’s expression turned from shame to hesitation and then to deep hunger.

Arya closed her eyes, and as she did, she felt her father’s knee brush against her cunt. He moved it gently, spreading the wetness all around the fabric, carefully stimulating her pearl with slow circular movements. Arya dropped her head back as she carefully felt the intoxicating touch, the pressure becoming firmer and firmer with each second that had passed. Her mouth opened and her eyes closed tightly. “ _Ahh_.” Already she had started to see stars. She squirmed out of her father’s grasp aggressively. Brandon released her. She lifted her tunic to her chest at once, sitting up on her elbows before beginning to rub herself against his knee, swiveling her hips around in impatient seductive circles. 

“What is it?” Brandon whispered, his voice dark and sluggish. He stopped moving, Arya noticed, but she kept on. She continued to rub herself against the hard bone, only slightly slowing down her pace as she tried to reach for his fingers instead. A muffled moan escaped her lips, she tried to stifle it, but her father’s eyes on her only made her feel more aroused, more foul. “Already _so_ eager, _she-wolf_?” Arya nodded, paying his teasing little mind, too engrossed with her own growing lust. Arya quickly moved her hands to the hem of her tunic. He caught the gesture and stopped her at once, preferring to remove the tunic himself. Arya felt the chill from the room pierce at her naked skin as her father yanked the fine cloth over her head and threw it on the floor.

Brandon

Arya _whimpered_. Brandon’s eyes feasted on his daughter, on her bare chest, her pert small teats, and her milky white skin. He licked his lips as he went for the last piece of clothing that clung to her tight body. He grasped the linen undergarments and tore them off with one aggressive motion. He lifted her legs to yank the cloth away and feasted his eyes on her again. She laid on her back with her head tilted, her stare focused, and her cheeks scarlet. She planted her hands on her shoulders, and without averting her dangerous gaze from father, she brought her knees up again, with her feet planted on her featherbed. She opened her legs slowly, exposing her glistening passage. 

Brandon inched closer, still on his hands and knees, biting his lower lip so hard he tasted blood. He watched as Arya moved her left-hand down slowly. From her shoulders to her collarbones, to her chest. She pinched at her pretty pink nipples before descending down to her stomach, and then to her navel, stopping before she reached her mound. Brandon leaned forward as he stared attentively. Her breath was short, and a cold sweat ran down her forehead. Her long brown hair was messily scattered along the bed. It made her look _goddess-like_ , _wild_ , and so much like the sister he had lost twenty long years ago. _The Old Gods have returned my sister to me, have returned me to my she-wolf. My Arya. My own Lyanna._

“Touch yourself.” He commanded and Arya, obeyed, wholeheartedly so. 

...

The first time they had participated in such _vulgarity_ had not been so simple or _sweet_. Brandon had remembered the memory as if it had only happened the day before. It happened two long years ago. Jon Snow had gone off to Karhold with Rickard as his new father and mentor, and Alys as his new bride. To Brandon’s dismay, it appeared as though his own son had gotten on better with the old Lord Karstark. And not soon after, it had been his little Sansa, his oldest daughter, who left him, who was taken from the North and given to the South. She was married to Mace Tyrell's firstborn son, Willas. And soon enough she would give him sons… _Tyrell sons_ , Brandon had thought bitterly. 

Winterfell had been silent after their departure. For a little while. But after some time, Robb, Bran, and Rickon all recovered, all regained their former selves, had remembered that they had been children of Winterfell, of the Old Gods. They had all remembered, had started smiling and laughing again, even Catelyn who had sobbed herself to sleep every night, grieving her daughter’s departure, eventually became _whole_ again. The same could not be said of Arya.

Arya had been an entirely different story. Arya’s rebellious nature multiplied, _for a while_ , and though she played with sticks, and kept close to the people of Winterfell, she never returned to herself. _Not entirely_. Brandon had done everything in his power to recover his daughter. To recover his wild little girl, who laughed so hard she cried, whose hair had always been so unkempt, who fiercely protected her little brothers from the bigger and meaner children. She had still been all these things, but with it had come a terrible wrath, a wrath that had always accompanied prolonged periods of _pure_ melancholy. 

It was only after Jon had left that Brandon had begun to watch Arya. _Truly_ watch her. And soon enough he had learned new things about her. Things he had often overlooked as The Warden of The North, as her father. Brandon had learned that there had been more to Arya than the disobedient boyish-girl Catelyn had constantly reduced her to. Through that hard wolf-ish exterior had lied an almost-woman, a _real_ woman. _Mature_ , tender to a fault, with a yearning for love. Beyond all her pragmatism, Brandon realized, she had been just as _lonely_ and _hungry_ as he. Just as lonely as Lyanna had been once, _long before,_ when she had been promised to that _despicable_ Lord of Storm’s End. 

That had perhaps been the worst thing he had noticed in his daughter. _Her resemblance to Lyanna._ Brandon, at first, tried not to see it, tried to convince himself that it meant nothing, but he knew that would not last long. And Brandon had been aware that with Jon gone, and Arya’s loneliness destructive and rampant, she would reciprocate any touch that he laid upon her, reciprocate any sweet word that he bestowed on her. Arya had loved him boldly, a great deal more than Lyanna ever had. He _knew_. And Brandon knew he did not deserve her love, but alas he still took advantage of it, still _tainted_ it, while claiming it to be _inevitable_.

It had been two years ago. _The first time_. Arya had fought with Jeyne Poole. The subject had been of Jon Snow. Brandon was told that Arya had to be pulled off Jeyne Poole by a number of girls all at once. Her rage had been frightening, making a skinny young child-woman much stronger than she had any business being. Brandon had smiled at the septa’s recalling of the incident. Catelyn had frowned in horror, and when he and his wife had been alone, she had refused him in bed for weeks at a time. Brandon thought to bed some Northern whores, and tavern wenches, in the time it would have taken his wife’s scorn to dwindle, but had found that none of those common women would have satisfied him even partially. Not in the way his wife could at times. Not in the way Lyanna had. _Mind, body, and soul_. _Lyanna._ Not in the way, he had thought, with horror, that his own daughter could have. 

One morning while breaking their fasts, deprived and testy, Brandon decided he would go riding with Arya. _Alone_. He told his steward, Vayon Poole, of his plans, and to take care of matters in his stead. Catelyn had frowned and protested softly, insisting that Arya had classes to attend to. Bran and Rickon had asked to go too, with great child-like enthusiasm. Robb only ate his breakfast of porridge and meat quietly, elbowing Bran to shut his mouth. Soon, it had been Brandon telling everyone to _shut up_ , especially little Rickon who had kept insisting to go, even shouting, with tears in his eyes. 

“Arya and I will spend the day riding. I will take all of you another day. _Understand?_ _Another_ day.” Rickon had pouted in anger as a distressed Catelyn tried to calm him. Robb and Bran remained quiet, not wanting to upset their father. Arya had been just as quiet. Her long face littered with understanding. When she looked at her father, her large gray eyes had looked wet and riddled with a sort of guilt. Still, Brandon had noticed she smiled at him sweetly before she averted her attention back to her meal. 

Brandon felt the Northern air pinch at his skin as he rode. He was fast and wild ahorse, but Arya had been a bit faster, _lighter_. The sensation of riding was rejuvenating. He felt like the young boy he once was. The day had been cool but humid and the sky had been a dark gray. Arya had been a gifted rider, perhaps not as gifted as Lyanna yet, but more gifted than most girls her age, that was certain. Brandon watched her riding, bolting through the leafless trees, and the snowy terrain. He watched how her dark hair blew in the wind, how she shouted at him to _catch her_. How she laughed. How the sound of her sweet breathless voice echoed through the woods. 

When they had stopped to catch their breaths, the snow had begun to fall again. Arya’s face had been bright-red, her hair wilder than ever, and the ends of her plain gray dress wet. A cold sweat fell from her forehead down her cheek as she dismounted the large dark horse. Brandon watched her as she pulled off her furs and walked off towards the hot springs not too far off the trail. 

Brandon dismounted and followed her. Even her stride had been mesmerizing, he thought as he walked behind her. Arya stopped in front of a thick pine tree overlooking the steaming water. She placed her furs down on the snowy ground, under the tree. Brandon inhaled the sweet, sharp smell as he neared his daughter. 

She plopped down on her furs. Brandon laid his own furs beside hers. They removed their cloaks in unison. Arya looked up at him as they did. Her eyes focused and curious. She laid on her back with hesitation as he looked down at her. Brandon had realized that his daughter had already known, already known _why_ they had gone riding that day… He kneeled in front of his daughter, crumbling his cloak into a ball and placing it behind her head like a pillow. 

“It might hurt, _a bit_. Don’t be afraid.” 

She swallowed and shook her head. Her expression was dignified and unyielding. “I’m _not_ afraid of you, father.” 

“Of course you’re not.” Brandon had whispered as he kissed her lightly on her forehead. 

He crawled onto his daughter on the hard uneven ground. He stared at her rosy face for a moment before laying a deep forceful kiss upon her lips and relieving some of his weight on top of her. To his surprise, she kissed him back, just as fiercely, just as hungrily. She grabbed his face and pulled him in as he kissed her deeper, their lips cold and wet. Arya had felt bony underneath him, but he found he liked that. He liked the discomfort, he liked how she squirmed, how she moaned into his ravenous mouth, out of breath. He felt her skin prickly from the cold, felt her pretty pink nipples underneath her dress, felt her warm thighs, and the skin on her pretty neck. He tasted the sweat on her teats, on her forehead, and inner-thighs. Brandon had never felt so _intoxicated_ with lust in his entire life. 

He pulled her dress up to her stomach, it had taken a lot for Brandon not to rip it off. Arya had her hands on his face. She stroked his cheeks with her thumb, as she stared into his eyes. Her eyes were full of tears, but Brandon knew it had been too late to stop, to ask her if _this_ was what she wanted. He could not stop, and he was grateful she had not asked him to. 

Brandon feasted on the view. Arya laid on her back, her dress up to her stomach, her knees up, and her pretty pink cunt slick with wetness. _She had wanted to be fucked, after all_ , Brandon thought. He pulled his trousers down with one impatient tug, feeling the cold air sting, as he went to fill her with his large cock. Arya positioned her hands on his shoulders and shut her eyes tightly. The sight of her cunt alone had been enough to make Brandon reach his peak. Still, he had closed his eyes and fucked her nevertheless. “ _Oh_ _fuck_ ,” he huffed. Arya whimpered, clearly with some discomfort. 

He pushed into her snug cunt, his cock throbbing, _already_ ready to burst. The tightness he had felt around his head had been _otherworldly_. Arya had cried out in a moan, hugging him by the neck suddenly, and pulling him closer, holding on to him. With one impatient thrust, he had immersed himself inside of her. He froze. The warmness was heavenly but the tightness was _excruciating_. He wanted it to last as long as possible. “ _Gods_. _Fuck_.” But he knew it would be quick, the quickest yet. “ _Fuck_.”

“ _Go on then. No need to be gentle_ .” Arya’s face had confused Brandon. She had looked aroused and feral, yet at the same time, her face was wet with tears. Brandon’s face hardened just as hers had as he began to ram himself deeper inside her. _One time_. _Two times_. She had been _so_ wet. It had impressed him how well she took a man of such abundant size. After the third thrust, he felt stars blind his vision, and a second later, his cock pulsated inside of her.

“ _Oh fuck, that’s it_.” He huffed shakily before reaching his peak and spilling inside her. “ _Oh_. _Lya_.” At once he had decided that Arya was now his. _His and nobody else’s_. He collapsed on top of her, and laid his head on her chest, for the next moments that came. Neither of them said a word. Brandon only laid there on top of her, still half-hard. He smelled the pine, the come, the smell of … _blood_. _Her_ blood. _The blood of her maidenhood_. Arya’s heart had been pounding vigorously against his ear. The flurries fell, but Brandon could not feel the cold with his she-wolf beneath him, radiating heat.

“Did it hurt, _sweetling_?” Brandon had asked her after a while. 

“A bit.” Arya had answered bravely, her voice raspy.

  
  


Arya 

She watched her father’s dark gray eyes, and tousled dark hair, and the smooth flesh on his neck. She tightened her grip around his wrists as Brandon fucked her. Arya heard as Nymeria growled again from the side of the bed. 

Arya pushed Nymeria off the bed gently. The direwolf jumped off the edge and sat on the floor, whining now. Brandon had been drunkenly engrossed with his view of Arya. He groped at her teats, squeezing them hungrily as he pumped inside. Arya thought that by now, she would have been accustomed to him, to the _size_ of him, to the _shame_. But she found that no matter how often he would take her, it never felt all that much different than the first time. 

With one last thrust, her father came. He made that face he always made when he peaked. His mouth ajar, a croaky growl spilling from his throat. Like clockwork, he had collapsed atop of her, his breath short. Arya could hardly breathe with her father crushing her with his weight. She found she liked his warmth though and the familiar way his breath fell on her chest. 

Brandon lifted his head as he relieved some of his weight off his daughter’s scrawny body. His eyes had looked lighter just inches from her own face, and sweat dripped down his face. He had also looked older up close, Arya recalled. She felt him still half-hard inside her as he leaned forward to stroke her hot face. Brandon cupped her right cheek, and smiled at her, as he rubbed it with his thumb. Arya had felt dizzy, and awfully confused. She had not known what she was feeling for her father. She could not understand in what way she loved him, or if she even loved him at all.

“Do you still love me, she-wolf?” 

Arya had only stared at him at first. She failed to respond as she shivered under her father’s naked body. She scanned his hard face. Here and there. She did not want to admit to herself, or him, that he was handsome, beautiful even, but she had never been particularly good at lying. Arya bit her lip. She brought her left hand up to her father’s face and began to stroke it, in the same manner, he had done. 

Arya nodded as she ran her fingers through his dark hair. 

“But nowhere near as much as you loved Jon.” 

_Loved_ _..._ Her father’s words had caught her off guard. She had not heard him mention Jon in so long nor the way she had felt about him. _Felt_. It had felt like so long ago, _their goodbye_. And yet still, the heartache of his departure came back all the same. 

“Jon is gone now.” 

_“Jon is gone.”_ Brandon echoed as he leaned in to kiss her forehead, and then the tip of her nose, and then her wet lips. He pressed his lips onto her mouth and left them there for a while. Arya kissed him back sluggishly, closing her eyes as she felt her eyes begin to sting. She hadn’t known why she had felt blue so suddenly, so alone. She only knew that she was only mere moments away from shedding a night’s worth of tears. 

Arya aggressively detached herself from her father’s lips, and looked off to the side, almost angrily. “You shouldn’t be here at this hour. Mother will wonder where you are.” She had told him strictly without looking at him, though her voice had sounded unsteady. 

Arya felt her father’s eyes on her. She could feel his sudden wrath and the hard way he stared at her. “There she is. Mother’s _precious_ girl and father’s rotten brat.” Brandon pushed himself off Arya. She sighed at the relief of having his body off hers. She sat up at once, with the same fiery energy as him. She pulled her furs up to her neck to hide her naked form. Nymeria jumped onto the bed beside her again. Arya watched her father rummage for his clothes. His mannerisms were hostile and unbalanced. 

Arya watched him pull on his trousers, his length had only softened then. She twisted her mouth as he brought his tunic over his head and turned to leave without looking back at her, or wishing her _sweet dreams_. His stride towards the door was taken with hard and heavy steps. He was angry with her, she knew. She could not blame him for it though. She had been a terrible daughter to her father, but especially to her mother.

Arya had already been underneath her furs when the door slammed to a close. And just as she had expected, the tears came running out. Much more viciously than she had anticipated. Her chest pounded with sobs, and her tears had stung her warm face. She could hardly breathe under the covers but found comfort in that somehow. Nymeria cried with her, and she nudged Arya through the covers. 

Arya wanted to be elsewhere, to be someone else, to start again, all over again. She wanted adventure, she wanted _more_ choices, she wanted her mother, she even wanted Jon again even though he had willingly left her. But above all, she wanted her father. She wanted him to walk through her bedroom door once more, no longer angry at her. She wanted him to hold her, to hold her naked body tightly against his. She wanted Brandon more than anyone else, and though she would never admit that to herself out loud, or to him, it had been the bitter truth. A bitter truth that made her hate herself with a raging passion she had never known before… 


End file.
